


Dirty Water

by objectlesson



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthur Pendragon's Patented Seduction Techniques, Bathing/Washing, Body Worship, First Time, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Master/Servant, Mutual Pining, Pining, Power Dynamics, Scent Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:22:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27945245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: Merlin is very glad Arthur’s back is turned to him, because he’s quite certain he’s just made a violently affronted face. He tries to school the expression, nose still wrinkled up dual fondness and disgust as he towel dries Arthur’s shoulders and blurts, “are you offering me yourdirty bath water?”Arthur reels around and glares at him. “Well, I suppose when you put it that way ithardlysounds generous. Or sanitary.”
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 35
Kudos: 457





	Dirty Water

**Author's Note:**

> I think a lot about how Merlin just canonically bathes and dresses Arthur every fucking day and also sees him naked and how annoying and frustrating that would be for him. So, I wrote this. Also I know sharing bathwater is gross but I'm a very gross person and I like dirty shit. This could be dirtier/more scent kink focused tbh but there's plenty of time to write every little kink I want with these two sooooo. enjoy!

—-

Arthur flicks Merlin none too gently behind the ear. “You have horse feed in your hair,” he drawls, holding his hand up entirely too close to Merlin’s face to show him the bit of green between thumb and forefinger. “Really, Merlin, you should wash better. Any servant of mine shouldn’t be walking around covered in grass and manure.” 

And maybe because it's very late and Merlin is very tired and he lives in a perpetual state of being _very_ fed up with Arthur Pendragon (or fed up with the condition of being woefully and hopelessly in love with Arthur Pendragon, at the very least), he does not ignore the jab as he should _. “_ Well. Not _all_ of us have the luxury of bathing in a hot, drawn bath every day,” he snaps, rounding on Arthur with his arms crossed and his jaw set tight. 

Arthur actually looks surprised to hear this. He stumbles back, eyes narrowed like he thinks Merlin is lying. “You don’t?” 

“No! Water is expensive! And so is fuel for the fire to heat it,” he explains, wondering how on _earth_ Arthur feels entitled to call _him_ stupid when _he_ doesn't even know how how much of a privilege daily baths are in his own sodding kingdom. “You really are _terrifically_ spoiled Arthur, you know that?” 

“And _you’re_ terrifically insubordinate,” Arthur cuts back, mouth twisting into an incredulous shape before he deposits the bit of hay back into Merlin’s hair. “Speaking of baths, it’s about time for mine, isn't it.” He shoots Merlin a cheeky grin, then, and holds up his arms so that he can be undressed. 

He's fairly quiet for the duration of his bath, though. For him, anyway. He frowns resolutely at the soapy water, and doesn’t even spin around to elbow Merlin when he tugs out a snarl of hair at the base of his neck where his armor rubs. Merlin is working up the energy to ask if there’s anything troubling him when Arthur quite suddenly stands, foamy rivulets coursing down his strong back that Merlin is _forced_ to look upon every day. “The water is still warm,” he says then, voice gruff, quiet, mirthless. “If you'd like to rinse the hay bits off.” 

Merlin is very glad Arthur’s back is turned to him, because he’s quite certain he’s just made a violently affronted face. He tries to school the expression, nose still wrinkled up dual fondness and disgust as he towel dries Arthur’s shoulders and blurts, “are you offering me your _dirty bath water?”_

Arthur reels around and glares at him. “Well, I suppose when you put it that way it _hardly_ sounds generous. Or sanitary.” 

Unfortunately, Merlin is not in a position to rule things out for failing to meet Arthur’s standards of cleanliness. He’s not actually _sure_ when he’ll get a decent bath again—he and Gaius trade off every few days, which means he really only gets to properly scrub and soak about once a week if he’s lucky. He peers down into the soap-swirled water, purses his lips, and honestly considers it. “Perhaps not sanitary,” he says, helping Arthur from the bath. “But better than trying to sleep filthy.” 

“Well,” Arthur says, voice muffled as Merlin towel dries his hair while staring at a far-away spot on the opposite wall since he’s honed the act of _not_ looking at Arthur while he’s naked down to somewhat of an art. “If you _want_ to bathe, you’re welcome to. I suspect whatever you do with the water once I'm through with it can wait a bit longer.” 

“Very charitable of you, sire,” Merlin says with a bite of sarcasm, making sure Arthur _knows_ he’s insulted by the suggestion, even if he’s _also_ sort of contemplating it. 

The idea of sitting in Arthur’s filth _should_ be disgusting, but instead it twists strange and low in Merlin’s gut, probably because he’s in love with Arthur and finds even the dirt formerly clinging to his skin attractive. It’s pitiful, he knows it. It’s also not his fault. He thinks _anyone_ would be subject to similarly pathetic inclinations if _they_ had the last dragon alive telling them they were fated to change the world with Arthur Pendragon by their side. Merlin tries not to beat himself up _too_ much about it. But used bath water…might be a step too far. Even for him. 

However, that night as he tries to sleep, the crease of his elbows irritatingly sticky and the smell of himself nearly _distracting_ if he reaches above his head to punch his pillow back into shape, he thinks about it again. Perhaps it wouldn’t be _so_ shameful, to take Arthur up on his suggestion. After all, it _is_ a waste of warm water, to dump a perfectly good bath into the plants before it’s even gone completely cold. 

—-

He tries to forget about it the next morning, but one of the side effects of being unclean all the time is being _aware_ of being unclean all the time. _Wishing_ one was not unclean. Yet as the evening draws nearer, Merlin doesn't want to _assume_ the offer still stands. After all, Arthur’s odd, misguided bouts of kindness are capricious at best. So, he’s taken by surprise when Arthur cuts his bath short and says, “Go on, hop in. I can dry myself tonight.” 

“Can you _really?”_ Merlin asks to mask his shock. 

“Believe it or not, _yes,_ because unlike you I’m not a complete idiot. No _go._ I can smell you,” he snaps. 

Merlin very self-consciously undresses, trying his hardest not to think too much about Arthur smelling him. Or about getting naked in front of Arthur. Especially while Arthur is still naked _himself_ , just a few feet away. This is probably quite commonplace stuff for him; Merlin is sure the knights strip down and hit each other with things and do weird complex male bonding rituals together all the time, but that’s because they’re not _like_ him. They don’t have things to hide. Desires to conceal. His cheeks are hot as he kicks away the last of his clothes, wasting _no_ time stepping into the bath and submerging himself. 

It hits him with somewhat of a _delay,_ that he's sitting in Arthur’s bath water. Arthur’s bath water that smells like Arthur: Arthur’s soap, his aftershave, his fancy herb infused hair oil he uses because he gets dandruff. Merlin grits his teeth and tries not to think about it, scrubbing his arms, then his chest, harshly enough the sponge scrapes punishingly, discouraging his body from reacting in any unsavory, embarrassing ways. The whole thing is rushed, but still Arthur manages to shout from the bed, “don’t take your _time_ , Merlin, this isn’t a leisurely soak. I’d like to go to sleep at a reasonable hour.” 

Merlin makes a face no one sees. “Of course, my lord. Don’t worry. I’m finishing up. Wouldn’t want to keep you waiting for your bedtime stories and nightly tuck-in, would we.” 

Arthur sends a pillow sailing then, but of course with no real intent to his aim because even _he_ wouldn’t be stupid enough to launch something of his own into dirty bathwater. Merlin watches , unimpressed, as it hits the table and knocks off an empty wine goblet. And then he stands, only to realize there is _of course_ no clean towel to use, only Arthur’s damp one which he carelessly left on the floor near the foot of his bed. 

Cursing and shivering and _entirely_ naked, Merlin tiptoes across Arthur’s quarters to retrieve it. 

Arthur cranes his neck up to look at him. “Are you _dripping_ all over my room?” 

“Yes, but only because _you_ left the only towel, _right here,”_ he explains, holding it strategically in front of himself until Arthur quits staring at him with that awful, unreadable, perplexed expression on his stupid face. 

“Right. Forgot about the towel bit,” he says before settling back into the pillows and shutting his eyes. 

Merlin lets out a pained breath and furiously dries himself before pulling his clothes back on, snuffing the candles, and leaving with the dirty towel and the _extra_ dirty bath water, wondering what the fuck just happened to him. 

—-

Merlin is prepared for the possibility that this bathwater arrangement is an isolated incident. He doesn’t want to grow _used_ to the prospect of actually getting to bathe every day, so he defaults to the assumption it was a fluke, that Arthur was just suffering from one of his rare fits of guilt induced charity and now that the debt has been paid off in his mind, he will return to his usual boorish ways. 

However, Arthur Pendragon is full of surprises. It would be _easy_ to write him off as a rude, selfish, spoiled prince. But when it comes down to it, he does _try to be_ a good man, to think of his people. And Merlin supposes that for better or for worse, he’s one of those people, too. So he perhaps shouldn’t accidentally drop the soap on the floor in a messy flurry of fingers when the following night, Arthur offers again. And then again, and again, until Merlin has gotten to wash the day’s work off of himself _for an entire week_ without Arthur revoking the privilege. In fact, he’s even made small, silent, alarmingly thoughtful accommodations. For example, he started requesting his baths at a _hotter_ temperature so the water is not tepid when Merlin steps in. And, on a day he was particularly filthy after training for hours the mud, he ordered Merlin use a wet rag to wipe off the worst of it before he soaked in the the tub, so that there was not a ring of silt collecting at the bottom for Merlin to avoid when his turn rolled around. 

It’s all very odd and uncharacteristically nice, even if Arthur would never admit to the niceness _or_ that niceness in and of itself was uncharacteristic for him. Merlin stays wary and suspicious, braced for some inevitable joke at his expense to occur once Arthur has lulled him into a false sense of security, but it never comes. Arthur is just being genuinely kind to him, it seems, in that odd and out of touch way royals attempt to be genuinely kind to their servants. 

In addition to shared bath water, There is also the increasingly pressing issue of Arthur’s lingering _looks._ Merlin has his theories about the tub situation itself. Like maybe Arthur got tired of the way Merlin smelled. Maybe it was embarrassing to be seen so regularly with someone so dirty. Or maybe he harbored _actual_ anxiety about being wasteful upon learning how expensive hot water is. There are a myriad of potential underlying causes, but none of them account for the way he will sometimes, quite unabashedly, stand there in the center of his room with his arms crossed over his chest and his towel around his hips _staring_ while Merlin undresses, like it is some fucking spectacle. 

It would be one thing if he were making rude comments about the size of Merlin’s prick, or something. (Even though it is neither large nor small enough to warrant any sort of comment, rude or otherwise, in Merlin’s opinion). But he doesn’t say _anything._ He just frowns, and looks, and purses his lips as Merlin tries his damnedest to conceal any sensitive bits from Arthur’s prying gaze, cheeks burning. Finally, on the third consecutive night of this, he snaps, “do you want to hire a local portrait artist to immortalize this in a painting, or something?” 

Arthur turns very red and sputters before tearing away to stomp off to his bed. “Certainly not, I wouldn’t want to _scare_ anyone who might stumble across such a monstrosity.” 

Ah, so _there_ is the rude comment, the joke, the frivolity. Merlin rolls his eyes, discards the rest of his clothing, and slips into the bath. It’s very nearly cold tonight because he took so much precious time trying to hide his body from Arthur’s mysterious survey, so he shivers, gritting his teeth. “Really though, what _are_ you looking at when you _look_ at me like that?” he asks, dumping a pitcher over his head to wet his hair. 

Arthur is quiet for a long time, and it occurs to Merlin that perhaps he doesn't even _realize_ he’s been staring. Maybe it’s just one of one hundred ways in which he’s entitled and takes up space without a second thought. Or again maybe it’s a ritual that holds different meaning amid the company of the knights. “I suppose I’m wondering how someone so reflectively pale and sickly thin can exist in nature. Contemplating if you’re part salamander,” Arthur eventually drawls, voice thin and even in the way it always is when he’s trying to lure Merlin into a battle of wits he thinks he will win. 

“Fine,” Merlin says, because he prides himself in not _always_ taking the bait. “You discovered my secret. I’m part salamander.”

“I knew it,” Arthur quips. But then he rolls over and pretends to sleep, and Merlin does not even get the chance to wish him goodnight, or burn under his gaze as he tugs his clothes back on, article by article. He is almost disappointed. 

—-

A month or so into this routine, Merlin stops obsessing over the minutiae so much. It doesn’t _matter_ why Arthur wants him to be clean and it doesn’t _matter_ why he looks at his body. Merlin already _knows_ they’re fated to be sides of the same coin or whatever terrifically confusing and Romantic riddles the dragon spewed, so he should _stop_ yearning for that to happen in the way _he_ wants it to happen and realize he’s helpless against the steady churn of destiny. If Arthur ever _desires_ him the way he desires Arthur, it will come in due time, when its supposed to. He can’t let his stomach plummet and his blood race at every little thing Arthur does, especially when he is a prince and very _rarely_ makes sense because royals are, without a doubt, all quite insane. 

Merlin doing very well with this not-caring business when Arthur throws him for another fucking loop, and ruins all his hard work in a single moment. 

It happens when Merlin is scrubbing Arthur’s back, watching his heat-flushed skin grow even _more_ red as he drags the soapy rag back and forth over it, kneading into muscle. He tries to touch Arthur lightly and clinically most days, but his _own_ back is aching terribly this evening so without even fully realizing it he’s mimicking the sort of steady dig he wishes he could replicate on himself. Once he’s lathered him up properly he leans to get the pitcher for rinsing, but the motion tugs his sore muscle taut and he winces. Arthur might not have noticed the subconscious massage, but he notices _that._

 _“_ What are you moaning and groaning about?” he asks, shooting a speculative look over his shoulder at Merlin. “Have you gone and hurt yourself?” 

“Tight back. It’s nothing,” Merlin explains, not wanting to discuss it, not wanting to draw _any_ more attention to his body than Arthur already pays it. 

“It’s because of your awful bed,” Arthur says matter of factly, and Merlin makes a face, dumping the pitcher down his back and watching the sudsy film melt away. 

“My _bed?”_ he says. _He’s_ quite sure the soreness is from the hours he spends every day mucking the stables and hauling tack and armor and holding a wooden shield while Arthur repeatedly wallops it with all the force of a warrior. His bed is his _solace_ at the end of the day, not his pain. Arthur is being ridiculous. 

But he presses on resolutely, like he knows what he’s talking about. “ _Yes,_ your _bed_ Merlin. That hard narrow little thing. It seems stupid that you go to sleep on something so terribly uncomfortable every night. No wonder your back hurts.” 

“Well, it's not like I have an alternative,” Merlin snaps, resisting the urge to yank Arthur’s hair punishingly as he rubs his shampoo in. “Like bathtubs, not every home is equipped with fancy four poster beds with down pillows and overstuffed mattresses.” 

“I _know_ that, I’m just saying—there’s plenty of room in here, you know.” 

It takes Merlin a few long moments to put together what Arthur is talking about. And then he does, his blood immediately ices over. “In _your bed?”_

Arthur whips around to shoot him a perhaps disgusted and definitely scandalized look, moving so violently half of the bath water sloshes out of the back of the tub and onto Merlin’s legs. “No! Not the _bed,_ I just meant the _room._ I could have a cot brought in, something with a decent mattress wider than that thing you currently have.” 

Merlin cannot believe this conversation is happening. Arthur has been in his room a handful of times, certainly, but he didn’t think he’d ever noticed what he _slept on,_ let alone in enough detail to offer it so much criticism. He stands up to pace before nervously grabbing his towel and patting fruitlessly at his wet trousers. Arthur watches him, making a face like he's personally offended by the display. “Merlin don’t be an idiot. Take them off and hang them by the fire to dry. It’s not like I don’t see your legs every fucking night,” he scoffs at him. 

“ _Sorry,”_ Merlin shoots back, certain his eyes are flashing, that his cheeks are predictably flushed. He just—he reallycan’ttell if Arthur is _trying_ to make him fall apart, or if he’s actually so dense he has no _idea_ how all this might affect him. Merlin has long suspected that Arthur probably knows, on some very deep and repressed level of himself, that Merlin is in love with him. He’s even considered _telling_ Arthur to draw attention away from other and more important secrets he hides in the event he ever needs an excuse to explain his behavior. He _also_ has long suspected Arthur sort of prides himself in being the object of people’s affections, because underneath his many bristled layers he is both profoundly insecure and pitifully needy. So all in all, it’s possible Arthur knowsexactly what he does to Merlin, and revels in it. 

Or else he’s just remarkably stupid. Perhaps his brain is thoroughly addled by the experience of being a knight, where bonding deeply and intimately with other men is a sign of _honor_ and _prowess_ and not the affliction Merlin suffers from. “I’m just trying to—just trying to get things straight, here. You want _me_ ,” Merlin says, gesturing to himself dramatically so that there is no question whatsoever, “to _sleep in your quarters_ with you. The Crowned Prince of Camelot, with his manservant on a cot at the foot of his bed like some loyal dog? All because you’re concerned about my _back pain?_ ” 

“I was imagining it on the other side of the room, separated by a screen,” Arthur grumbles. “And no one has to _know,_ if you’re so concerned with what they might think. And _furthermore,_ I’m not _concerned_ about your back, I’m concerned that it will affect your already very shoddy work ethic if you’re in _pain_ all the time.” 

There is something _so_ defensive written into Arthur’s features that Merlin can hardly breathe as he looks at it. There’s the perfect pink twist of his mouth, the way he is neither frowning nor sneering, but stuck somewhere uncommitted between the two, so that he can default to one or the other once he has enough context to know _how_ he should feel about whatever they’re discussing. Or again, maybe Merlin is reading far too much into all of this. Maybe being the sort man who suffers from an affliction has addled _his_ brain. 

“I just don’t understand—”

“Fine then,” Arthur snaps, standing and stepping out of the bath, creating a puddle on the floor as he strides over naked and rips the towel out Merlin’s hands. “You don’t need to understand. Forget I ever mentioned it. Sleep on your shitty cot for all I care,” he says, before vigorously rubbing his arms and chest and hair dry with the towel, demonstrating that he’s _perfectly_ capable of taking care of himself. “Take the bath water, why don’t you,” he says then. 

Merlin does, and incidentally falls asleep dirty that night, in his very narrow and very uncomfortable bed. When he wakes some time before dawn with his back in spasm, he wonders if he should continue to settle for the demeaning scraps Arthur offers him while he waits for destiny to come to fruition. If bath water and nodding off to the sound of Arthur’s sleeping breaths are better than nothing, or if he should wait for a time he can sleep in his arms, share his baths, serve him as he is _destined_ to. (If that time ever comes.) (If that’s what the dragon even _meant,_ or if Merlin is just made from wishful thinking and careless optimism and these dual afflictions he has hidden his whole life.) 

He rolls over, and tries to will himself back to sleep. When it does not come, he wills himself to forget, instead. 

—-

It is days later when the brewing tension and confusion comes to a head.

Merlin has been trying his hardest to stop interrogating Arthur’s motivations or lack thereof. He’s attempting to shut himself off _entirely_ when he bathes, and when he undresses, and even when he bids Arthur farewell at night to wander down through the cold hallways of the castle to his quarters before climbing into his admittedly very small, very narrow, and very uncomfortable bed. In fact he is _currently_ sitting in Arthur’s old bath water, sudsing up his arms and legs and repeating silently in his head _don’t think, don’t think, don’t think_ when, much to his shock and horror, Arthur is suddenly standing right beside the tub again, naked and dripping. “Budge over,” he says. “I’m coming in.” 

“What?! No you’re not!” Merlin sputters, panicking as Arthur steps over the side and begins to lower himself. There simply is not enough room in this tub for the two of them to sit side by side without touching. They are going to touch. _Oh God,_ they’re—it’s already happening, the slick-soapy wet of Arthur’s bare skin sliding up against Merlin’s legs, and then _between_ them as he situates himself. “Ok, right, I’ll just get out then,” he announces, trying to sit up. 

Arthur holds him fast, gripping his calves with bruising force. “No you will not. You missed a massive spot on my back.” 

“Spot? Spot of what?” Merlin asks, gaze skittering nervously all over Arthur’s back, which looks _perfectly_ clean to him. Arthur _smells_ clean, too, a far cry from the way Merlin smells, since Arthur _didn’t let him actually bathe_ before commandeering the tub. And now he won't let him leave, either. Merlin’s heart is pounding, his whole body rocking discreetly in time with it, forced up into the constricting tube of his throat so he can’t even _speak properly. “_ Sire,” he says, but it comes out all wrong. Low and tattered, like a warning. 

But then Arthur rounds on him, pinning him to the side of the tub with his body, shifting so water capsizes over the edge in a wave and splatters onto the floor. “I don’t know what to do,” Arthur says then, voice sharp and gaze helpless as he looks at Merlin. Looks at his mouth, his throat, his bare, wet, heat-flushed chest, then back up to fiercely hold his eyes in unbreakable sincerity. Merlin stares at his own reflection in that wide panicked blue, mouth hanging open. “I want you closer, always. It’s never fucking close enough. When I fall asleep I think of when I’ll see you next. And when I wake up and you're standing beside my bed, that’s not enough, either. I want—I want—” and then Arthur’s voice cracks and his eyes flash and the promise of destiny comes rushing in between them, like a flash flood. 

Merlin finally fucking gets it. “You want me _in_ your bed,” he murmurs. “In your bath. “

And then quite suddenly Arthur is all around him, against him, slick and needy and too rough, and it’s _perfect_. “ _Yes,_ god,” he huffs out, fingers flexing against Merlin’s shoulder, water licking around them, Luke warm now that their skin is fire-hot. “I’ve been _trying_ to tell you, but I didn’t know how—or what you’d do,” he chokes out, still sounding _angry,_ somehow, defensive, like he hasn’t realized he’s already got what he’s wanted all along. “I can’t keep _smelling_ your sweat and _seeing_ you undressed and _not_ have you,” he bites out, pressing his brow to Merlin’s, sucking in his frantic breaths. “So now that you know, you may do what you will. Leave and and we shall not speak of it again, or—”

“Arthur,” Merlin interrupts, cutting him off by cupping his cheek with a dripping hand, thumbing over his mouth roughly enough to distort the shape of it. “You have me. You already have me,” he promises. 

Arthur whines, then bites at his hand before knocking it out of the way to kiss him, there in the bath, fingers tight around his throat so that Merlin can hardly breathe. It’s fine. He hardly _wants_ to. Not when he can kiss Arthur instead, lick over his teeth, suck his tongue, surge against him so the bath overflows yet again. 

“Get up,” Arthur huffs out between biting kisses, fierce and set to bruise. 

Merlin tries his best to do as he’s told, but it proves rather difficult when Arthur won’t stop touching him, mouthing over him. Thumbing up under the hinge of his jaw and turning him left and right to study his face, like he’s not _entirely_ sure it’s really Merlin he’s got here under the roving hunger of his palms, but some trick, some sorcery. Merlin eventually has to shove him off and scramble out of the tub himself, since Arthur is offering no help whatsoever. “Where do you want me?” he asks, dripping as he backs up, as Arthur climbs out and follows him, gaze hot and aimless as it rips over his body. And Merlin realizes, he’s been doing this for _weeks,_ really. _Staring_ at him. Beholding his flesh with the same petulant twist to his mouth he gets when _anything_ that he wishes to possess is out of his reach. Merlin shakes his head, astounded he misunderstood it so completely. 

“On the bed,” Arthur breathes as he backs him into it, pushing him down by his hips, laying him out, drinking him in. Merlin can hardly breathe, still soaking wet and shuddering in the firelight, burning up in the blown-out pupil black of Arthur’s eyes. _Don't think, don’t think, don’t think,_ he tells himself. Because if he does, he will inevitably say something to ruin it all. Too many truths spilling from his lips like blood from an open wound: _I have magic, and I love you. The last dragon alive told me this is our destiny, and I love you. You’re very bad at seduction, and there are one hundred better ways you could have gone about this than offering me your dirty bath water, but none of that matters, because I love you, and I love you, and I love you._ Instead he bites his lip, trying to breathe as Arthur dips down, kisses a messy path from navel to pubic bone, and then takes Merlin’s cock in hand before sucking the head down like it’s all he’s been thinking about for _months._

Merlin cries out. It’s so much, _too_ much, it's more than he’s ever _dared_ get himself off to even in his filthiest, most self indulgent fantasies of what _destiny_ meant. Arthur is naked and on his knees, he’s groaning and drooling and never _once_ has Merlin ever even let himself _think_ of this. He’s been prepared to drop to _his_ knees in worship. He’s thought of his own mouth only as something to _use,_ not as something worthy of being parted in gasping pleasure, ripped over Arthur’s name again and again until every syllable has lost meaning. Just as his stomach begins to tighten and he draws close to finish, a fist in Arthur’s hair and his narrow thighs splayed and trembling, Arthur pulls off wetly and climbs atop him. His mouth is swollen and his cheeks are red and he _smiles,_ and it’s easily the most beautiful thing Merlin has ever seen in his entire life. “I want you here,” Arthur growls, pinning one of Merlin’s hands above his head and burying his face in the pit of it, licking over the dark, sweat-sharp hair there until it’s matted down and shining with spit. Then, he grips his thigh before rubbing his thumb into the crack of his ass, over the twitching furl of his hole. “I want you here, too.” 

Merlin chokes out an awed, helpless laugh, hands all over Arthur’s back. “You can have me anywhere,” he promises. “Any way you’d like.” 

“I don’t know how,” Arthur admits, shaking his head, kissing a path from Merlin’s throat to his mouth. When he licks into him, he tastes of sweat and musk and filth, and Merlin groans into the slick drag of their mouths, astounded that Arthur _wants_ him like this. With such force, such fury. 

“Luckily _I_ do,” he promises, bearing down on Arthur’s fingers, rocking into the pressure. 

Arthur curses, feels him out experimentally. “Well, you’ll have to show me, some night when I’m not half-mad with needing you.” 

“ _How_ do you need me?” Merlin asks, licking over Arthur’s mouth, getting his teeth into his lip until he hisses, bucks, ruts his hard cock against Merlin’s stomach in rough, stilted drags. “How do you want to come? In my mouth? on me?” 

“Ah—fuck,” Arthur chokes out, making a fist in Merlin’s hair and yanking punishingly as he spills between their bodies, sudden and sticky and wonderful. 

Merlin beams up at the ceiling, positively beside himself. “Ok, like that I guess,” he says. 

Arthur rolls off of him, chest heaving as he struggles to catch his breath. “Shut up,” he says. “You cannot hold this against me. I’ve been waiting a long time. I've had to see you _naked_ for _weeks_. It’s entirely unfair.” 

Merlin snorts, “I’m almost certain you haven't been waiting as long as I have, _and_ I’ve been seeing _you_ naked for _years._ It is _I_ who has been treated unfairly.” But Arthur isn’t even listening to him, he’s staring at him with soft, twinkling eyes, he’s shifting closer across the wet bedspread to press his lips to Merlin’s stomach, between ribbons of his own come. The second his mouth makes contact, Merlin’s voice dies in his throat.

Since Arthur has already come the urgency is drained from his body, replaced with reverence instead. He takes his time, licking his way lower, rubbing curious fingers over segments of muscle and the jut of bone, mapping Merlin out until he’s a feverish shuddering mess beneath the heat of Arthur’s lips. “Please,” he murmurs, only distantly resenting himself for begging because he feels like he might _die_ if Arthur doesn’t finish him off soon. “Please.” 

He thinks Arthur will tease him longer, that he’s testing his own power over Merlin, or perhaps Merlin’s devotion to him, but instead, he just groans and gives in. He sucks Merlin down inexpertly, mouth sloppy and wet and absolutely maddening. It’s clear he _was_ trying to be coy or methodical about the whole thing, but in seconds he’s dissolved again, humping the mattress and gagging himself and sucking so self-indulgently there’s never enough pressure or finesse for Merlin to sink into and come. Finally he can’t take it anymore, so he grips Arthur by the hair and holds him in place and fucks the tight ring of his lips a few times in order to finish. Arthur gags but swallows, and Merlin is wheezing in disbelief when he finally pulls off, heart pounding, stars clouding his vision. 

Arthur spits froth onto the bed. “Ugh. I shouldn’t like the taste but I do. What did you do to me? Why is my mouth all numb and tingly?” He licks the back of his hand before rubbing his lips with his knuckles. “Odd.” 

“Sorry, it does that. Have you never tasted yourself after you finished?” Merlin asks fondly, reaching down to thumb over the corner of Arthur’s mouth, which is red and puffy and lovely. 

“No, that’s disgusting,” Arthur says, hauling himself up before collapsing beside Merlin, curling his arms around his body and drawing him to his chest, crushing him there possessively. Merlin can’t breathe, but he doesn’t care one bit, 

“Not as disgusting as sitting in someone’s used bath water. And liking it,” he admits.

He feels Arthur smile into his hair, the huff of his breath further mussing it up. “See, I knew you liked it.” 

Eventually they get up and peel the wet bedspread off, and Merlin doesn’t even have to worry about being cold because the sheets of Arthur’s bed are very fine and on top of that, his body is curled so aggressively around him he’s very nearly overheating. It’s wonderful. He skims his fingers up and down Arthur’s forearm, loving the way he hums against the back of his neck, boyish and content and very very spoiled, just as a prince should be. “You know,” Merlin says, lacing their fingers. “I’ve been very seriously considering your offer about bringing some sort of cot in here, on the other side of the room, separated by a screen. Perhaps tomorrow we can look into the logistics of such an arrangement.” 

“No,” Arthur says, bending his head to bite the back of his shoulder. 

“No?!” Merlin counters, feigning surprise as he wrenches away to snuff the candles. Once they’re thrust back into sudden black Arthur gropes across the mattress and finds him again in the dark, rolling Merlin’s body beneath his own, kissing clumsily over his face, breath bitter with come. 

“You’re only allowed to sleep right here, from now on. Decree issued from the Crown Prince of Camelot,” he says. 

“Can crown princes even issue decrees?” Merlin asks, but Arthur shuts him up quite effectively by kissing him deep, and he forgets entirely about the question all together.Eventually he falls asleep dirty, but this time, he hardly minds. 


End file.
